


The Phallic Trickster

by pokey_jr



Series: Metamorphoses [2]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Cream Pie, F/M, POV Second Person, Smut, Spanking, The Flesh Curtains Discography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2019-01-08 17:41:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12259029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pokey_jr/pseuds/pokey_jr
Summary: Even as a fleeting presence in most people’s lives, Rick Sanchez leaves a mark.





	The Phallic Trickster

**Author's Note:**

> This is intended as a follow-up to Smooth Operator, though they don't need to be read in sequence... let's be honest, this is self-indulgent porn. With that said, please enjoy!

At least two months go by after the night of your phone call with Rick. You force yourself to lose track of the time, immersing yourself in work and school. When you go to the Smiths' house for tutoring sessions with Morty, he's only there for one of the scheduled times. The rest, he's gone off with Rick through some portal or another, according to Summer, who sounds more bored and resentful every time she informs you of this. 

But you keep scheduling the sessions at Beth's insistence, and showing up. She pays you half of the fee as apology for wasting your time, and usually you sit at their dining table waiting to see if Morty and his grandfather will return early. They never do, but it's a chance for you to catch up on the pile of reading you have to complete, which never gets smaller. 

You haven't seen Rick either, not even the tail of his lab coat flapping around a corner as he goes into the garage, or glimpsed him raiding the kitchen for other people's food. He hasn't texted, and certainly hasn't called. The expectation of a follow up to the salacious phone call with him that night before your presentation at the Entomological Society meeting consumed you for the first week, until you convinced yourself of how silly you were being-- that this was a sad, pathetic obsession over a cranky old bastard who barely gives a shit about himself, let alone anyone else. 

Thoughts of him fade in and out of your routine. You try to be happy for yourself for not feeling bitter towards him, but you waver between distracted and miserable, annoyed and embarrassed with yourself for being so fickle. What does it say about you that you can get obsessed with some random weirdo in just a couple of weeks, and then talk yourself right back out of it? But you're trying to be pragmatic, and your need to be happy drags you out of your hole of wretched insecurity and longing. You go out with friends, make out with an assistant professor from another department, though when you realize you went for him because he was older, and sort of gangly and distant, you shut that down real quick. 

The quotidian cycle is settled again, you move through each act of your day with dull resignation. It's not fun all the time, but you tell yourself such a thing is impossible, and the light moments need a dark contrast so you can tell them apart. It’s dreary, but normal. You trudge along the precarious ledge of ‘just okay’. Rick and his craziness aren’t the first spike of excitement in your life, and they won’t be the last. 

Then, late one afternoon, this placid balance is upended. Beth and Jerry have gone to couples counseling, and left money for pizza, trusting you over Summer, even though their daughter is at home. There have been some hushed, angry conversations lately, which you feel guilty about listening in on. Something about Summer and pottery glaze, and gateway drugs. It’s not your business to get involved, and when Summer has made hinting remarks to you about trying to find a ‘connection’, you feign ignorance.

You've become sort of a fixture at the Smith household, spending at least a couple afternoons there a week. Beth seems to enjoy you as a fellow appreciator and non-judger of boxed wine. For your part, you're fine with having a place to be that isn't your drab apartment, and getting paid while drinking and studying isn't a bad deal either. You would be crazy not to lay low in this situation.

Even now, you are sitting on the couch in their living room, with a glass of Beth’s wine, snacking on some wafer cookies you found in the pantry. Your laptop is open on the coffee table, and papers are arrayed all around you-- undergraduates’ homework. You wish you could get away with a marking system comprised of smiley faces and frowny faces, instead of point systems and letter grades. It’s not your stint as a teaching assistant for this class, and the appeal of coaching other students through familiar material has long worn thin. You’ve come to realize that not everyone finds their introduction to insect biology as exciting as you did. Wine and cookies go a long way towards making it tolerable. 

You lean back on the couch, wine glass in one hand, red pen in the other, and take a sip, marking right and wrong answers from memory. This really isn’t so bad. Almost relaxing--

The door to the forbidden area of the garage slams open. You startle, sloshing your wine-- _RED wine_ \-- onto the paper in your lap. “Rick!” To your faint embarrassment, your heart leaps with excitement. You can’t be happy to see him… can you?

“No-- no time to explain. Whe--eeeurgh-re-- where’s Morty?” Before you can shrug, he dismisses the idea. “Nevermind, come-- come on with me, I got something, need another pair of hands.”

“Uh, I’m…” You get up, trying to shake the wine off the paper. It’s no good. Stained, and very obviously not by grape juice. “Just a minute.” 

“Ugh!” Rick rolls his eyes, and crosses the room in a couple long-legged steps. He grabs the glass from your hand, drinks what’s left in one gulp, then drags you into the garage. 

“Rick, what the hell!”

“That was for your own good, trust me. Beth drinks that swill all the time and look where it’s landed her. Here.” He reaches into his lab coat and offers you his flask. 

You accept, partially out of spite. The drink smells the same as you remember, like ethanol, but tastes stronger than vodka. Your eyes water, you suppress a cough. “That…uhh… that cleared my sinuses,” you say weakly, handing it back to him. “Thanks.”

“H-hold… you just hold onto that for a minute.” He closes the door from the living room behind you. The large remote controlled garage door is already closed, and the dusty space is lit by a bare bulb overhead hanging by a wire. In front of the workbench there is a large form like some sort of animal, covered in heavy, stained canvas. Something twitches under the cloth.

“Now don’t--don’t freak out, okay? Because I-I-I don’t have time for dramatics” Rick moves with swift purpose to the thing under the cloth, and rips the cover away with a flourish. 

_No time for dramatics… right_. Your sarcasm dies when you see what he’s revealed. “What the…” You breathe out until there’s no oxygen left in your lungs, and forget to inhale again. 

“Yeah, it’s an alien. I-i-it looks like a bug. That’s about it.” He’s holding an oversized scalpel, leaning over the carcass of that… thing. He looks at you. “H-hey.” He snaps his fingers at you. “Get over-- get your ass over-- eeuurp-- here.”

You blink, take a breath, and nod, then go to him. “What is this?” You struggle to sound neutral.

“The fuck do you think it is?” He heats the blade of the scalpel with a blowtorch, then prompts you with a look.

 _Oh, that wasn’t rhetorical._ “It, um… it looks like a beetle, actually.” You crouch down next to it, peering at what you think is the head. “It’s on its back, obviously…” You start to look to him for approval, but then disregard that impulse. He asked you, after all, and when it comes to insects you know a fair amount. So you put on your best teaching voice, which you need to practice anyway. “The horn is distinctive, it looks like a male Hercules beetle, except those only reach about 7 inches in length, and this one looks like at least 65 inches.” Rick makes no comment, only pulls on a pair of goggles, and hands you a pair along with a rubber smock as well. “This one appears to be injured. If it’s supposed to have six legs, it’s missing parts of two, and the elytra-- the, uh, hard cover over the wings-- it’s cracked. Does this thing have wings? There’s fluid leaking out there.”

“What color?” Rick snaps, not looking away from where he’s making an incision in the thing’s abdomen. 

“Purplish? And green. It’s iridescent. Wait, no… I think it’s just oxydizing.”

Rick swears, and begins barking instructions at you. Following them is easy, and mindless-- much like you felt briefly during a certain phone call with him that took over your life for a couple of weeks-- and you recognize most of the tools he snaps for. He is grim, insisting that he needs to work quickly, and making some insinuation that this creature was his friend, important to him. You relent, and help, though you remember the pile of grading you still have to do, along with your own normal load of coursework. Those thoughts fade, however, and the minutes crawl by. Assisting him is exhausting and not particularly rewarding. At one point he demands to have his flask back, and doesn’t offer you any more.

At last, after almost two hours, Rick straightens up. “Should be safe now.”

The creature will live, although it stopped twitching about twenty minutes after he made the first incision. But what do you know about alien biology? You’re midway through a sigh of relief when Rick plunges his arm into the opening in the carcass where he’s been operating and starts fishing around in the viscera. 

You make a noise of alarm. 

He grins at you. “Don’t w-- don’t you worry, any other time I go elbow deep I use-- eeeuurgh-- I use lube.” And he winks.

“Ohhh…” Nausea swells within you, and you suddenly blink at the gore. There’s blood on your smock and your hands, in your hair. You’re standing in it and it’s congealing on your shoes.  
And then he rips something from the creature’s innards-- a huge gem the size of a bowling ball, glowing deep blue. It’s covered in arteries and tendons and bits of what look like muscle. Ichor still pumps weakly through it. The squelch it makes when torn free of the body makes you sway, though you’re determined to stay upright. Rick seems not to notice, only making deft cuts at the arteries, and attaching the gem to an artificial pump. 

He sets the gem on a stand, and starts cleaning up, dumping the soiled implements in a deep sink, stripping off his gloves and goggles. He’s upbeat as he uses some sort of hi-tech blow dryer, which cleans the guts and ichor off his clothes and skin and hair. You walk over to him, dazed, and get the same treatment. 

You stand there, exhausted and blank. There should be some reaction, you think. You aren’t quite certain, but you suspect you helped him kill that thing. You should be yelling at him, or crying but you just feel empty. You've forgotten what you're supposed to be doing.

“You hungry? Wanna get-- get something to eat? I’m thinking Blips and Chitz…”

You blink at his question, realizing how close you’re standing to him He sounds almost concerned for you, then clarifies: “cause I’m gonna get schwwwasted babyyyy!”

"I'm not-- no. Not right now, Rick. I'm just gonna go home and have a glass of wine. I have reading I need to finish."

His brow furrows. You feel a stab of something like affection-- who knew an old man's unibrow could be so endearing. "Come have a drink with me instead." At your expression he continues. "I'm serious. Y-you think you want to be alone, that's-- it's fine, do whatever you want, but don't drink by yourself right now. Trust me on this." He pulls a gun from within his now-clean lab coat and opens a portal next to the insect carcass. You recognize the gun and the portal it makes from Morty’s descriptions. Rick, one leg already stepping through the vertical green whirlpool, looks over his shoulder at you. Against your better judgment, you follow him.

**  
A couple drinks go a fair way towards settling your nerves and subduing your moral unease. The queasy horror at the gore stays with you moreso, and you stew over it, even knowing that you’re not being a great conversational partner. Being around Rick is torturous—not because he’s being unpleasant, but because of his effect on you. You had just finished convincing yourself that you were past this. _Pathetic. I’m so pathetic._ He ignored you for months while you couldn’t stop thinking about him. That phone call was supposed to be closure. It hadn’t worked out that way. 

You’d convinced yourself that you had successfully buried yourself in work and school but now that clearly wasn’t true. Sitting here next to him, elbow to elbow at the bar, and it feels like there’s a little tape recorder in your head that only plays his voice, and then only the dirty things he whispered to you over the phone. You shift in your seat, feeling a heat that has nothing to do with the ambient crowd. It isn’t just the memory of his voice, either. It’s the image of him from that afternoon on the balcony, when he had smirked at you and dismissed you unless you were going to help. If Rick knew how your body reacted when you were around him—hell, every time you even think of him… the humiliation would be too much. _Again, I’m pathetic._

You swallow, overtaken by an intense, unexpected compulsion to please him. Who really knows what he wants-- you have a vague idea, which involves sinking to your knees. He would laugh at you, condescend to allow you to use your mouth, though perhaps not your hands. Yes, wrists bound behind your back. He can smirk all he wants at your eagerness, but his head would tip back as he fucks the wet heat of your mouth with lazy strokes, pushing deep enough to gag you and pressing his balls against your chin… down, girl.

You really hope he doesn’t have some sort of mind reading device, otherwise you’d be in trouble right now. The risk of getting caught strikes another flash of need in you, and you shift in your seat, bumping his elbow. You look at him and he gives you a friendly, knowing smile. _Oh shit_ … maybe he _can_ read your mind. 

You swiftly turn your gaze elsewhere, and it lands on one of the TVs above the bar. It’s showing some version of MTV, with music videos for so many bands you don’t recognize. Except… you do a double take. From the TV, to Rick, and back to the screen. The bass player in the music video looks awfully familiar, and he picks a fast, complex riff, though you can barely hear the song over the din of the bar. The camera zooms out as the vocals come in-- some sort of bird person screeches into a microphone, and behind him a scrawny cat-like creature is playing drums ahead of a backdrop of flames. The camera pans over to an arena packed with fans. “Rick, is that…?”

Rick crosses his arms and scowls. “Before you ask any more _questions_ , yes, I was in a metal band, and yes, I chose that outfit myself while minimally inebriated.”

You watch the music video in wonder and amusement. The bassist gets more screen time as he shreds a solo; the camera focuses first on his unruly white-blond hair, then slides down his chest, exposed in a loose tank top, and tight, tight jeans with a skull belt buckle. The figure on screen is a god, and you’re transfixed by the performance. There’s sweat on his chest, and his fingers are moving too fast to see. Your inner thighs jump with a pulse of desire. _Oh, it’s_ definitely _him._

As the song ends, the band name flashes across the screen in bold pink letters: ‘The Flesh Curtains’. Rick is grumbling on your left. His arm brushes yours every time he picks up and sets down his glass, which doesn’t help you distract yourself from lewd thoughts about him. 

Figuring he’s probably been asked about the band name enough to get sick of the question, you ask what the song was called.

“You couldn’t tell from the repetitive lyrics? Bird Person screams ‘My Name is Pussy Destroyer’ about fifty times. I gotta-- gotta say, not our be--eeeurgh--st. Not our best, but sure as fuck not our worst.”

“What was your worst?”

“Uhhh probably Lime Party Death Rage.” Rick grimaces as if sharing a secret with you. “Bird Person got all experimental and Squanchy had to take time off in rehab for squanch addiction. He couldn’t keep-- couldn’t handle the fame. The more groupies we got, the more time he had to spend in his squanch box.” Rick sighs.

“What were some of your album names?” You ask, hoping to steer him away from the sudden melancholy.

“Let-let’s seeee…” He holds up his drink-free hand and begins to count on his fingers. His long, bony fingers, which you can easily imagine gripping your jaw or tangled in your hair or-- _focus._ He must read something into your expression, because he’s grinning, that same grin he gave you during the balcony incident when he noticed your particular interest in him. “We had ‘Master Says Faster’-- that was our first. Then ‘Ass Crackerzzz’ with three z’s. ‘Operation Titty Slap’ and ‘Don’t Forget to Floss Your Front Butt’. Had to-- had to do a double album like the Beatles. And then a thing for disaster relief, you know extra special We Are the World Benefit track shit, we called it ‘Mudslide in Djibouti’.”

“Amazing.”

“You’re telling me. We were the biggest act in Federation space for three and a half years, even spawned a co--eeeuurgh--over band called Fresh Merkins.” Rick downs yet another drink, then stands up. “Speaking of shit, I gotta take one. Be right back.”  
As soon as he returns, he hails the bartender. “By the way, don’t fucking mention any of that to-- to Morty or Summer or anyone.”

“I promise I won’t,” you say, filing away the details of the Flesh Curtains for later blackmail. Rick goes silent, sipping his drink. You follow suit, wishing you had the gumption to keep asking him more about this fascinating and hilarious part of his life. Minutes pass, and you catch him looking at you a few times. It’s more quiet and contemplative than you would ever guess he could be. “Rick, what is it?” You finally ask. 

He smirks when he answers, as if he’s lured you to your question. “So are we not gonna-- a-are we just gonna ignore that phone call? Got any more presentations coming up?” 

This is what you've been dreading. It's not that you don't want a redux of what happened-- if you're honest, you want a lot more, and his presence has an embarrassing effect on you. But the sway that feeling has over you is terrifying. Rick, and who he is, is intimidating enough-- wry, jaded, blithely confident, not to mention your student's _grandfather_ , and probably three times your age. Not that it matters to him, obviously. You keep telling yourself that you’ve managed to push down that pitiful longing, and with one skeptically raised eyebrow he brings it all back. "What's there to talk about?" 

"You’re stressed again, should I step outside and maybe you can send me another awkward, desperate text?” He shrugs. “Don’t know about you, but I had fun.” He gives you an appraising look, taking in your blush and the way you're biting your lip. It makes you squirm. "You know you're real-- eeeuurgh-- reeeaaaaally resistant to having a good time. I took you here to make sure you wouldn’t be drinking alone. Absolutely no expectations here for anything else. Nooooo pressure. But I-I’m telling you, my company is best appreciated via all five senses.”

You wrestle down a jolt of arousal at his suggestive tone, wanting to hang on to how you thought you should be feeling, which was stressed and tired and indignant. And you're still turning over in your mind why Rick would ignore you for months and suddenly be interested again. Was he really propositioning you _now?_ "Why didn't you get Morty to help you instead?"

"Had to-- had to move fast. I came in, you weren't doing anything important."

You frown. "I was, like, balls deep in a spreadsheet! And I wasn’t pissed that you drank the wine, I’m pissed because you came in and surprised me and made me spill it! And I was in the middle of grading! I have to get those done by tomorrow!”

“Oh… it's not that you murdered something, it's that you were inconvenienced? Wooooow… that’s, uh-- you know, y-you’re heartless.”

Your jaw drops, you're not even sure where to start refuting him and how blatantly ridiculous he's being. Whatever. You'll never get an apology out of him, but you're past that. You're tipsy, and annoyed, and above all, stressed. And it's easiest to blame it all on him. "You're a fucking smug asshole."

"Yeah." He tosses back the rest of his whiskey. "So how 'bout it?"

"How about what?"

He pulls out his portal gun . "You ready?”

“Ready for what?”

“To go home.” He leans in close. “You wanna go home alone, that’s fine. You can-- you’re gonna sit there alone, touch yourself in the dark thinking about me, right?”

You swallow hard, the reality of your arousal suddenly immediate. “That’s… that’s grim.” His nonchalant superiority is slowly but surely starting to infuriate you. Anger is strange emotion to couple with desire. 

“There’s another option.” His voice goes lower, grittier. 

"Which is...?" You prompt, throat dry. 

"I can come with you."

** 

You take a good look at Rick’s face, seeing all the signs of age and hard living. Lines around his mouth, bags under his eyes, nose crooked and a little hooked. His hair is always disheveled, he is gaunt, he drools, you know he has a bald spot. He drinks too much, swears too much, flouts laws for the hell of it, conducts unethical experiments on innocent fluffy creatures and probably people, too. He is arrogant, cynical, and gleefully deviant.

 _Damn it._ You don’t know if you want to throttle him or fuck him. Maybe both.

He had portaled the two of you back to your apartment, and it was surreal to step from the bar at Blips and Chitz to just beside your couch. 

He allows you only this fraction of time to look at him. Before the portal closes his mouth is on you, hot and wet, though not yet demanding. He holds you by the neck, biting and nuzzling your jaw. The breathless groans he makes against your skin make you almost melt into him, though he seems not to be in any hurry. The full force of your desire hits you, lifting you into that space of hyper-sensitive yet intellectually detached. Through this haze you realize he is tasting you, exploring your reactions with a scientist’s curiosity. Other than his voice, you can’t tell if he’s as aroused as you are; his mouth and hands are the only points of contact. You whimper, trying to press your body to his. It’s wanton and desperate. You need more. 

He keeps you at bay, his hand at your throat tightening. “Stay still,” he says. “I’m not done yet.”

You hear a ‘pop’ as the portal closes. The green light suffusing your living room is gone, and the space is dim and grey again. Rick’s nose is pressed to the juncture of your neck and shoulder. He breathes deeply, then drags his tongue along the soft skin. 

You cry out, not daring to move. His long fingers are firm around the column of your neck. 

“Sh-shit, that sounded hot…” he chuckles. “I didn’t mean be a statue, just don't--” His other hand comes up to grab your hair, pull your head back and with it, your body against his. 

_Finally._ You can’t repress a shiver. The frisson starts in your core, where pleasure is already tightly coiled, ready to unwind, and it travels to your extremities in a wave. His body is bony and angular, a stark contrast to your soft curves. You can feel his hard cock through the layers of your clothes. He presses himself against you. 

“Rick…” You whine. It’s not fair. You’re falling apart in his hands when he's barely touched you. It’s embarrassing to showcase your own complete lack of self control in front of a man who is so aloof. He is still maddeningly composed, and forces you to meet his eyes.

“In case it wasn't clear, I'm calling the shots. Got it?” 

At your wordless nod, his hand in your hair pulls enough for it to hurt. “I’m gonna need a solid ‘yes’ or ‘no’ here. Now, and any other time I ask you something. Ok, just like we practiced on the phone. Let’s try again. You do as I say, got it?”

“Yes.” You say it steady and clear. Something about his presumptiveness spurs you to be just a little bit contrary.

“Hmm.” Rick tilts his head, eyebrow raised. Without warning, he covers your mouth with his. The kiss is hot and searching, not romantic in the least. His hand around your neck slides down to press flat against your chest. His long fingers splay over the tops of your breasts and your collarbones. He bites your lower lip hard and when your lips part his tongue comes insistent and deep. He tastes like whiskey, a heady flavor from which he permits you no escape. 

You want more again, you want all of him closer and faster. He pulls away and pushes you onto the couch. You tumble back, wondering if you could refuse anything he wanted of you right now. If he had pushed you to your knees and pulled out his cock, instructed you to finger yourself, you would have done it. If he had been holding a piece of rope and told you to hold out your hands… hell, if he had dragged you into a bathroom stall at Blips and Chitz, pushed you against the door and fucked your ass… you would praise his name and beg for more.

 _I’m pathetic…_ you remind yourself. _Pathetic for begging like a slut and turning into a sloppy mess over some old guy I hardly know._

Rick shrugs out of his lab coat, then peels his blue shirt over his head. The collar flattens the spikes of his blue hair, but they pop right back up again. He frowns when he notices that you haven’t moved. “Well? Wha--eeurgh--at are you waiting for? Strip teases are a two way street with me, baby.”

You roll your eyes, but start undressing. “That wasn't much of a tease, Rick.”

He sits next to you, arm draped over the back of the couch, watching intently until the entire expanse of your skin is bared. As you pull your shirt off, His hands run up and down your legs, higher each time until his fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs. When you unhook your bra, his fingers touch the hot, damp fabric of your panties. He grunts-- surprise or something else, you can't tell. You unzip your skirt and lift your hips. He helps pull it off for you. 

Your pussy is soaking wet now, makes the air smell like sex. Rick pushes you back against the arm of the couch and studies you. Still projecting that air of calm, except you know his dick is hard. It's outlined in the fabric of his trousers, straining at the zipper. 

“Rick, please…” you arch, pushing your breasts closer to his face. 

“Mmm.” He bites his lip and you repress an impatient moan. His fingers trail across your skin from your collarbones down to your ribs. He traces the curves of your breasts, the touch on your skin so light it tickles. Your nerves are on fire. “You-- your tits are real nice. A plus.” 

You repeat his name, struggling to not sound as desperate as you feel. He seems to hear it anyway and relents, dragging the pads of his fingers down your torso, dipping in with your waist and out again with your hips. His eyes are hooded, his expression more relaxed than you’ve seen him before, except for his mouth. He gives you a devious smile as his fingers dip below the waistband of your panties. He raises an eyebrow-- amused? Pleased? And pushes a finger in your slick cunt.

You clench and then exhale. “Yes…” This is what you need. This is what you’ll take, if it’s all he can give you. You try to grind yourself onto his hand, and get his thumb to brush your clit. You feel swollen, pulsing and raw. Completely exposed and at his mercy. Just a little closer to that crest, you can seize what you want from him, the pleasure is within your grasp--

Abruptly, he takes his fingers away. “Take off your panties.” 

You obey, eager and aching.

“Now, uh, turn around for me. You got a-a nice fat ass, I wanna see my dick going in and out of it.”

“Uh?! O-okay...” Your panties are on the floor. You try to hide the quaver in your voice.

“Psych! Kidding! Gotta save-- gotta-- eeurp-- leave something on the table for next time. But it’s good to know you would’ve just gone with it.” He winks and licks your juices from his fingers like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.

You nod, returning his smile a little shyly. Would now be a bad time to mention you wouldn’t mind that first suggestion?

“Hey, snap snap! Hop to it! I said turn around!” He is fumbling with his belt buckle. You turn over so you’re kneeling with your ass towards him, bracing your hands on the arm of the couch. You hear his fly unzip and peer over your shoulder, wanting a peek. This is it. The cock you’ve been dreaming about. He pushes his trousers down just enough to give himself room as he pulls out his erection. Balls too. You lick your lips, loving how big they are… and saggy. You banish self-hating thoughts for the moment. No one has to know about your lust for saggy old man balls except you.

You wiggle your hips a little, smiling at him. Rick’s expression darkens. With a hand on the back of your neck, he pushes your face down level with your hands and simultaneously enters you with a rough, deep thrust.

You cry out in surprise, in annoyance, in absolute bliss. He is big… so big, and merciless. He doesn’t start slow, nothing in half measures. Your face is pressed against the coarse material of the couch; he forces you down to your forearms and strokes into your wetness, unrelenting. Still, he is too big, by every dimension. 

“Just-- just as hot as I imagined,” he pants. His hand on your neck is firm, holding you in place as he fucks you. “Just as wet. Just as tight.”

His thick cock is splitting you open, nearly painful save for the fact that you’re sopping wet. He begins to slow his pace, and you whimper. You are close again, and he hasn’t even touched your clit. Normally you would have already had your own fingers there, but you get the sense he wouldn’t appreciate that. And besides, you want to see what he can win from you.

His thrusts have stopped altogether. He releases his hold on your neck, drawing his fingers along your spine and over the curve of your ass.

“Rick…” The stillness is maddening. How can he reduce you to this? 

He caresses the smooth, round flesh, gives it a bit of a squeeze. Then his hand goes away, and you whine at the loss of contact. You need more, just a little more…

His hand comes down in a stinging slap on your ass. You clench involuntarily around his shaft, making it feel thicker than it already is. “F-fuck!” Your eyes open in surprise. Did that feel good or did it hurt? Both?

“O-oh fuck you _like_ that.” Rick laughs breathlessly and does it again. You moan helplessly at the shock of pain which translates to pleasure. “Hooo my...god you-- you're-- that's so hot baby oh fuuu…”

“Rick please,” you choke out, mind too fogged with lust to articulate anything more. 

“Are you--? Fffuck… don't tell me you're gonna come just from this? God _damn_ , you-- you're gorgeous.” He starts to pump his hips again, leisurely, controlled. “Let me hear you, baby. What does a good girl want?”

You think you might cry. You’re a raw, quivering mess and he’s still teasing you. He probably thinks you’re a pathetic, needy slut. “R-Rick…” Might as well embrace it.

“Uh uh. You gotta say it. Tell me what you want.”

“I… I want to feel you… your balls slapping against...m...” You gasp, cut off at a particularly deep thrust. 

“Mmm, uh huh.” Rick starts to speed up again. “What-- tell me what else.” His voice gets rougher. 

“Please spank me again.” You say in a humiliated whisper, but you have to ask for more. “I… I want to go to class tomorrow wearing your handprints.”

“Hooooly… _fuck._ ” Rick groans and pounds into you. He braces himself with one hand on the small of your back. The other delivers solid, powerful blows against your ass with an open palm. “Th-this is what you like, huh? Taking a dirty old man’s fat dick when you’re drunk and horny, letting him fuck you however he wants.” His cock fills you over and over, his balls slap against you. You’re incoherent, moaning, past caring.

He leans over your back, his mouth close by your ear. The change of angle hits you just so and you start to lose yourself. Lucidity winks out for a moment. Rick purrs to you, you’re such a good girl, sweet and tight and wet, so fucking hot when you come for him. And at last, he snakes a hand underneath you and rubs your clit. 

The orgasm slams into you. A wave of heat and joy and light rushes your senses. Your pussy squeezes him, drawing him further in, needs more and more and more. You will milk him dry before you get enough. You plead to him, calling out his name. Distantly, you hear him say yours in response. His hips don’t stop moving, driving into you with deep, sure strokes, prolonging your pleasure. He speeds up, gripping your hips tightly, pounding relentlessly. Moments later, he grunts his release, and goes still. 

You listen to his quiet breathing. There is a squelching sound as he pulls out. With him no longer supporting you, you collapse sideways onto the couch. You can feel his cum leaking out of you. 

“You know, I’m thinking about opening a bakery,” you say. 

This earns a grin, with which you feel inordinately pleased. Rick grabs a handy box of tissues, takes a few for himself and then tosses it to you. 

He finally seems to notice his surroundings as he’s redressing. “Not, uh, not gonna lie, this place is fucking depressing.”

You happen to agree with him, but that comment piques your temper. “I live on a stipend.”

“Yeah, right. Well maybe that bakery really is a good idea.” He looks at you wryly. “Guess I would just be the lucky first customer who didn’t have to pay.” He points the portal gun at his feet, and when the floor opens, he hops in and disappears.

**  
Early the next morning, you wake up in the dark, shivering. You’re still on the couch, still naked. There is a thin blanket over you. The memory of the previous night… Rick had tricked you into helping him murder an alien, then dragged you to an intergalactic bar, and then invited himself back to your place. _Oh, god…_ You sit up gingerly, knowing you’ll be sore. Yep. You’ll have to check in the mirror to see the handprints he left, but it definitely feels like they’re there. 

With an unpleasant shock, you scramble to find your phone and check the time. 7 _:15, damn it._ Intro to Biology was at 8, and you had to be there to hand back homework to 150 students. Homework which you had left at the Smiths’ house, along with your laptop. Cursing, you stand up and hobble to the shower, fumbling with your phone to figure out how you can politely bother Morty and his nice family so early in the morning and for such an irresponsible reason. 

As you pass the small round dining table, you do a double take. Your laptop, and beside it, a pile of papers. You open the flashlight on your phone and look closer. As quickly as your heart had dropped thinking you had forgotten it, you lighten again. Maybe you hadn’t been so irresponsible after all? But that didn’t make sense. Your memories of the previous afternoon and evening were vivid. Really vivid, at some points. 

You leaf through the assignments, remembering that Rick had caused you to spill red wine on one of them. Strange. It’s not in there. However, they’re all graded. You definitely hadn’t made it through all of them yesterday, and that’s not your handwriting. You pull the cord to turn on the single light above the table, and then sit down. One of the papers just has a big frowny face slashed across it in green. You flip to another and read the mysterious grader’s comments: 

_‘Wrong.’ ‘Incredibly Wrong.’ ‘Ur Dumb.’ ‘There are infinite possible universes and this answer isn’t right in any of them.’_

One has lines and lines of complex math filling every corner. Whatever thought process there was writing it, it’s impossible to follow.

Another simply has every correct answer marked with a doodle of an erect penis, and every wrong answer marked with a droopy one. As if the culprit wasn’t obvious at this point. Rick. You sigh, exasperated. If you see him again you’ll have to punch him. Just like that, you've been pulled into his orbit again. It's like being caught in a tractor beam. But in the back of your mind, the thought cheers you a bit: you’ll have a reason to see him again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone who requested this after the first one. Feedback is always appreciated :)


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